


Save Tonight

by jeyhawk



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-17
Updated: 2012-01-17
Packaged: 2017-10-29 17:29:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/322351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeyhawk/pseuds/jeyhawk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Detective Kris Allen volunteers for an undercover operation ran by FBI agent Adam Lambert. Things don't turn out the way either of them planned…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Save Tonight

**Author's Note:**

> **Beta:** sbb23
> 
> A huge thanks goes out to dansetheblues as usual! She tried her hardest to have this fic make sense. If it still doesn't, it's certainly all my fault. <333
> 
> Another thanks goes out to elizaria, who read the revised version and assured me it that doesn't suck. If it still does, I suppose it's still all my fault. ;) <333
> 
> Also, thanks to teamaims for the title. <333 (Borrowed from an Eagle Eye Cherry song.)
> 
> Please note that the entirety of my knowledge about police procedures comes from crime novels, TV shows and Wikipedia. I tried to make it plausible, but I'm certainly not an expert on these things.

The rough hemp of the rope bites into Kris's exposed skin, leaving it raw and reddened, and the filthy bed underneath him stinks of sweat and blood. His shoulders ache with the way his arms are pulled behind his back and every attempt to shift just makes the rope tighten until it feels as if he can't breathe with the way it wraps around him. This is not how it was supposed to go.

*

"No!" Special Agent Lambert's mouth sets into a thin line and he glares at Kris and Chief Cowell across the table. "Detective Allen doesn't have the necessary training."

"And what training would that be?" Chief Cowell asks, raising his eyebrows. "You know as well as I do that all he has to do is stand around looking pretty and unobtrusive. I'm sure even Detective Allen could manage that without _special training_."

The jab hurts, as does the dismissive look Lambert gives him, but Kris keeps his mouth shut and his hands open against his thighs. He needs this chance to prove himself, or he'll always be a fuck up in Chief Cowell's eyes.

"I want someone else," Lambert says, blue eyes sliding over Kris's face.

"Tough luck," Chief Cowell responds, crossing his arms over his chest. "I don't have anyone else."

Lambert's mouth tilts into a sneer and his nostrils flare, he's obviously not used to not getting his way.

"Look," Cowell says, leaning forward. "You asked for tiny, cute and unobtrusive. This is the best I can do."

"I can do it," Kris says, keeping his voice level and his eyes away from Lambert's face. "Just give me a chance."

Lambert stares at him for the longest of whiles, blue eyes hard and unreadable, before nodding curtly.

"Okay," he says and Kris tries to not let his relief show on his face.

*

Within minutes Kris's left thigh starts throbbing with the way his legs are tied together with his hands, and the stiff sheets scrape against the raw surface of his scar. He doesn't need the reminder of another case gone wrong and he shifts slightly to take the pressure off his leg. It makes the rough fibers of the rope eat into the soft skin of his stomach, but it also gives him just the tiniest hint of wiggle room, and he slowly, carefully, starts to move his hands.

*

Special Agent Lambert's briefing is short and to the point. He lines up seven pictures of mutilated young men on the table and points to one in the middle.

"Fuck up and this is you," he says.

Kris studies the picture, taking in the impossible angle of the victims left arm, the unseeing stare of his brown eyes, and the garish rainbow painted on the bruised and bloodied skin of his back, before lifting his eyes to Lambert's face.

"I know."

*

Sweat beads on Kris's forehead and dampens the skin on his back, it makes the sheets feel moist, disgusting, and he presses his mouth tightly shut before attempting another shift. The springs creak under him and somewhere in the distance a door slams shut. He holds his breath, waiting for something – anything – to happen, but everything is quiet save for the thunderous beat of his heart.

*

Kris takes one look at the outfit Lambert picked out for him before spinning on his heel to face the man in question.

"You've got to be kidding me," he says.

Lambert just raises his eyebrows with the tiniest hint of a smirk on his lips.

*

The skin on Kris's wrists is rubbed raw, but with every wiggle there's a little more give so he keeps at it, ignoring the way it stings. He doesn't know how long he's been here, or how much time he has left, but he clamps down on the panic and keeps on shifting his hands with tiny precise movements, pretending he can't feel the way they tremble.

*

The leather pants are skin-tight and the billowing shirt tucked into the waistband unlaced down to his belly button, Kris feels like a tool and he's pretty sure he looks one too. The knee-high spiked boots really doesn't help and the tangle of garish necklaces resting against his chest is cold and heavy.

The door opens and Lambert walks in without bothering to knock. He's carrying a wire in one hand and a small plastic bag in the other. He holds the bag up without looking at Kris.

"Do you know where this goes or do I have to draw you a map?"

Kris stares at the small smooth egg in the bag and orders his cheeks not to flush as he reaches out to grab the bag from Lambert's fingers.

"I know where it goes," he mutters.

He brushes past Lambert, intent on heading towards the men's room, but Lambert stops him with a hand to his shoulder.

"You might want this," he says, holding out a small plastic tube of lubricant and Kris's cheeks stop following orders all together.

The tube is still warm from Lambert's body, but Kris doesn't stop to wonder where he might have kept it; it's bad enough to know Lambert had it to begin with. The blush doesn't fade for the next ten minutes.

*

Kris can still feel the egg within him, small and unyielding. It should be broadcasting his position to the Feds, it should have had Lambert sweeping in to save the day hours ago, but the house, if it is a house, is silent around him. He's alone.

*

Kris comes back into the briefing room to find the table lined with makeup. He eyes the glittery explosion dubiously, hoping that no one expects him to actually know what to do with it, while he settles down into one of the chairs to wait for Lambert's return. Somewhere inside him the egg shifts, bringing a renewed burst of color to his cheeks. Naturally, that's when Lambert walks in again.

"Everything okay?" he asks blithely, but the too-innocent look on his face betrays his amusement.

"Fine," Kris says curtly, holding out the lube for Lambert.

Lambert smirks as he takes it from Kris's fingers, making it disappear into a pocket on the inside of his suit jacket, but he thankfully refrains from further comments.

"I checked with the techs," he says instead, taking a seat next to Kris. "They're picking up the signal loud and clear."

"Good," Kris mutters, determined not to think about the egg again until he has to.

*

Whatever the Rainbow Man used to drug Kris is wearing off fully, leaving him with a throbbing headache and heightened senses. He's hyperaware of every sound, every creak and whine echoing likea shout, and even the slightest shift of the air leaves goose-bumps in their wake. Stabbing pains shoot through his joints with even his tiniest movement and his mouth tastes like something died in it. He squeezes his eyes shut and keeps twisting his hands. It's the only thing he can do.

*

Lambert knows his way around makeup, sorting the various containers and pens with practiced ease. Kris doesn't know why he's surprised, the eyeliner alone should have clued him in.

"How do you feel about blue?" Lambert asks, brow knitted as if it's a serious concern. "With your coloring I'd normally go for gold with a hint of brown maybe, but that would clash horribly with the jewelry."

Kris just stares at him with his mouth hanging open. Lambert might just be the oddest Fed Kris ever had the misfortune of meeting.

*

The skin on Kris's wrists breaks, adding the slickness of blood to his unrelenting movement. It burns, hot and raw, but it lifts the fog from his head and it makes the rope slide easier, slowly slipping down over his hand. It gives him hope where there was none and he keeps on working, eyes shut and ears open. He'll find a way out.

*

Lambert's skin is pockmarked under the many layers of concealer covering his face and there's the barest hint of ginger at the roots of his raven hair. It's startling, somehow, to realize that Lambert is no more than human and Kris keeps his eyes on Lambert's hair as the agent reaches out to grab Kris's chin again with a brush poised in his hand.

There's something almost too intimate about the way Lambert applies makeup, his blue eyes sharp and attentive, while his hands are whisper-soft and gentle. Kris finds himself responding to the intimacy, the closeness, and his pulse picks up speed without asking.

Kris prefers his guys small and wiry rather than big and bulky, gentle rather than assertive, but it's hard to remember why when Lambert starts running his hands over Kris's skin, as self assured and confident with makeup as he was facing Chief Cowell down.

"Open up," Lambert murmurs, and Kris opens his eyes, not even aware that he let them fall shut.

For a moment they stare at each other, before Lambert's eyes drop to Kris's lips making Kris's stomach clench in anticipation. Then the door is thrown open and Chief Cowell barges in to chew Lambert out for commandeering two of his cars and the moment shatters into pieces so tiny Kris thinks he imagined the whole thing. It's probably for the best.

*

Kris's mind drifts in the darkness, taking him for an unwanted trip down memory lane. It's not quite his life flashing before his eyes, but it's not far from it, and he doesn't want to know what that means.

*

Kris stares at himself in the mirror. The makeup is subtle, the barest hint of shimmer across his lids, soft black lines around his eyes, and shiny gloss plumping his lips, yet he looks brand new. It should look garish on him, weird, but it just looks different, as if he doesn't really know the person staring back at him in the mirror, and considering he's lived with the guy for the past twenty-five years it makes him feel unsettled.

Anoop whistles when Kris walks out of the bathroom, waggling his eyebrows in a way that is probably meant to be suggestive but that just looks funny. Kris flips him off and slides back into the briefing room where Lambert and Chief Cowell are still yelling at each other. Kris isn't the slightest bit surprised that Lambert seems to be winning.

Naturally that makes Chief Cowell turn his attention to Kris, lips pulling back from his teeth in something that resembles a snarl.

"You look like a prostitute," he says.

Kris regales him calmly, ignoring Lambert's shocked gasp. "That's kind of the point."

Chief Cowell huffs, and pivots on his heel, stalking out of the room without closing the door behind him.

"You shouldn't let him talk to you like that," Lambert says.

Kris thinks that's kind of rich coming from someone who's been talking to him like that since the moment they met.

"I can handle him," Kris says, as he moves over to close the door. "He barks worse than he bites. Mostly."

He's not going to get into office politics with Lambert. It's hard to explain what it's like to be the youngest detective at the station, the newest detective at the station, the only gay detective at the station and a transfer from rural Arkansas at that, without having it come off like a woe-is-me story, because it isn't.

Sure, Kris has to fight tooth and nail for respect, but that goes for everyone, gay or straight, old or new. You're only as good as your last case and considering how Kris's last case went, it's a wonder people are still talking to him.

"For the record," Lambert says. "I don't think you look like a prostitute at all."

There's something in his voice that makes Kris shiver and when he looks up Lambert's eyes are heavy and dark, focused on the generous strip of skin visible through the open laces of Kris's shirt. Kris suppresses his need to pull the shirt closed and gives Lambert a pointed look. Nothing about their dynamic makes sense.

*

Whenever Kris's mind drifts away from the past, he sees the pictures Lambert showed him. Broken, battered bodies, empty eyes, garish bright rainbows. He sees the bruises and the patches of raw skin, matched now by marks on his own body, and somehow that gives him the strength to keep on pushing, twisting his hands and pulling on the ropes, with his breath stuck painfully in his throat.

*

Lambert is an asshole. Kris silently fumes in a corner while Lambert goes over the plan with the five federal agents in club gear that just arrived, looking a lot more sparkly and suave than Kris could ever manage. Lambert's plan references Kris as The Civilian. It also makes it clear that The Civilian is most likely of less than average intelligence and is probably plotting his own demise by means of torture as they speak.

It isn't his own demise Kris is plotting, as Lambert goes on and on about how Kris is to be protected at all costs, as if he's five years old and incapable of taking care of himself. It takes considerable willpower to stay quiet and unobtrusive in the corner when they only thing he really wants to do is kick Lambert in the nuts. Hard.

People underestimate Kris all the time. He's short, and cute, and has those nice Southern manners, and somehow they think that means he's weak. Kris isn't weak, he just lets people think that he is right up until he socks them in the eye, but he also knows how to bide his time and Lambert will get what he's due. Later.

*

Kris's last case ended with him getting shot in the thigh by an eighty-five year old grandma with a urinary tract infection. He's been back on active duty for a week and he's already trussed up like a Christmas turkey in a serial killer's lair. It's almost funny that he has the energy to be embarrassed about that even in a life or death situation.

*

Kris has every intention of telling Lambert off as soon as they're left alone again, but then Lambert brings him coffee and three different kinds of sandwiches and Kris swallows his anger together with the first few sips of blessed black gold.

"I didn't know what you like," Lambert says, laying the sandwiches out for Kris to pick one. "You look like a ham-and-mustard guy, but looks can be deceiving."

Kris picks the one with chicken breast and mango-garlic spread, he's so not a ham-and-mustard guy whatever that means. Lambert grins and takes the one with tuna for himself, settling down on the other side of the table.

"Black coffee and chicken," he says, as if this is vital information. "I'll remember."

Kris snorts, but he does take a peek into Lambert's cup, it looks like he prefers his coffee white. Lambert kicks his feet up on one of the empty chairs, crossing them at the ankle, and Kris spends a moment contemplating his boots. They're huge, and black, and very much not a part of federal regulation, much like the hint of eyeliner around Lambert's eyes and the chipped black polish on his nails.

Kris finds himself wondering what Lambert dresses like when he's out of his suit and quickly banishes the thought from his mind. It seems like this whole day is messing with his mind in ways he never expected.

*

The house is old and the bed is rusty, it feels like everything around him creaks and shifts, a constant cacophony of sound beating against his eardrums. Kris wishes he could just shut the world out and focus on freeing his hands, but he has to stay alert, awake, preparing himself for whatever happens next.

*

 

Kris is not the club going type, but he's pretty sure that The Rainbow Room is obnoxious by anyone's standards. The music is too loud and too cheery, reducing Lambert's tinny voice in his ear to barely there whispers, and the color scheme would make a paint shop jealous. Every wall is a different color and with the multi colored flashing lights it makes Kris feels as if he's caught in someone else's acid trip.

"This place is weird," he says, to the yellow wall he's been snuggling up to for the last few minutes, trying to avoid the overzealous advances of a ten- feet- tall drag queen.

He doesn't think Lambert will hear him over the din, but his voice creeps into Kris's brain.

"I think you have to be drunk to enjoy it," he says. "Now mingle."

Kris wants to protest that he sucks at mingling, but he's supposed to act normal and not like a crazy person talking to walls, so he reluctantly pushes away from his safe corner. He spots one of the Feds through the crowd on the dance floor, he looks like he's enjoying himself, swaying to the beat with his head thrown back and sweat glittering on his exposed chest.

Kris idly wonders where he keeps his gun as he makes his way towards the bar, where another one of the Feds is busy chatting up the bartender. He's sure they're professional, but their behavior isn't exactly confidence inspiring. Kris could get lost in the crowd and he's pretty sure they wouldn't even notice.

"You disappeared."

It's the drag queen again, her voice booming across the bar when she spots Kris. Kris tries for a smile and desperately signals the bartender.

"Bathroom," he explains vaguely, when the drag queen sidles up to him again, throwing one hairy arm across Kris's shoulders.

He's pretty sure he can hear Lambert laughing at him.

*

 _Who was it?_ The thought keeps running through Kris's mind, making him replay every second of interaction he had over the course of the evening, but hours later he's no closer to an answer. It could have been anyone.

*

Running into Andrew is unexpected and extremely awkward. They parted ways on amiable terms and at times Kris finds that he misses Andrew's easy friendship, but running into him at a club that is most definitely a gay meat market certainly puts a strain on both the amiable and the easy parts.

"You look…" Andrew frowns, obviously searching for the right word to describe Kris's ready-and-willing outfit without being offensive.

"Different?" Kris suggests, trying to convince the ground to open up and swallow him whole.

"Uh… yeah." Andrew licks his lips. "Different."

Andrew looks as he always does, calm and composed, in skinny jeans and a simple band shirt. He's sweaty along the hair line and his cheeks look flushed as if he just took a turn on the dance floor. As far as Kris knows, Andrew doesn't dance. Ever.

They're saved, if that's the right word, from the extremely awkward silence by the arrival of Andrew's date, or boyfriend, or whatever. A skinny little thing with sweeping blond bangs and more eyeliner than Lambert, he wraps himself around Andrew as if he has the right to, and gives Kris a pointed look.

"Who's your friend?" he asks.

"Uhm…" Andrew has the decency to lose his cool for a moment, a flush creeping up his cheeks. "This is Kris. Kris, this is Tommy."

"Having fun are we?" Lambert asks, in Kris's ear. He sounds as if he's just barely holding back laughter. Lambert sucks and he's probably watching them right now through one of the hidden cameras.

"Hi Tommy," Kris says, trying for a smile. "Nice to meet you."

"Same," Tommy says, but his eyes are still cool.

"Well, I better get going," Kris says, scrubbing a hand through the hair at the back of his neck. "People to see and all that."

"Yeah," Andrew says, reaching out to clasp Kris's shoulder. "Call me sometime."

He has the nerve to look worried. If anyone should be worried it's Kris; since when does Andrew hang out with skinny rocker boys and _dance_? He's obviously on something.

"Jealousy is so unbecoming, don't you think?" Lambert murmurs in his ear and Kris realizes he's glaring daggers at Tommy's back from the hidden corner where he retreated to sulk.

"Fuck you," Kris mutters, and this time he's almost glad when Mona's booming yell of _Kris_ rings out across the room, at least someone likes him.

*

 _It could be Lambert_ , Kris's mind whispers, dark and treacherous. _He didn't tell you to get out before it was already too late. What did he see on his cameras? What did he hear? How did he **know**?_

Kris pulls hard on the rope to push the thought out of his mind, ignoring the way the hemp claws at his bruised skin - he has to believe Lambert is coming for him. He has to. It's quite the surprise when his hand suddenly slips free, flopping down useless and aching against the filthy bed.

*

 

Kris thinks that maybe he could enjoy clubbing if he always had Lambert talking his ear off. As the night goes on the commentary gets more and more rambunctious and Kris constantly has to bite his lip to keep from laughing out loud. He wishes he could talk back, but he can only hide in the corner so often without drawing attention to himself.

The big garish clock above the bar reads 2am when the speaker suddenly stops working, cutting Lambert off mid rant (it's amazing that anyone can have that much to say on the subject of shoes), and Kris looks around furtively, resisting the urge to reach up and adjust the tiny earpiece. He spots Terrance, the Fed he saw dancing earlier, who frowns at him, glancing meaningfully towards the entrance.

Kris takes that to mean Terrance wants him to leave, but suddenly he's not feeling so well, so he sets out for the bathroom instead. His head is oddly heavy and his lids scrape across his eyeballs, scratchy from too many hours awake.

The earpiece crackles, but Kris can't really make out what Lambert is saying. Something about an egg maybe. Whatever it is it makes no sense.

"Abort, abort, abort," Lambert shouts, his words suddenly coming in loud and clear in a way that makes Kris's head spin. "Don't make me come in there and get you."

"That would be nice," Kris says to no one in particular, just as the floor comes up to meet him.

*

Once he's got one hand free, the coils of rope wrapped around his body loosen enough that Kris is able to wriggle out of them. It takes awhile to get the blood flowing back into his numb body parts, and he sits eerily still on the edge of the bed, straining his ears to hear over the harsh sound of his own breathing.

He doesn't know how long he's been held captive, but he guesses it's been hours since he was snatched at the club and it just doesn't make sense. From what little Kris knows of The Rainbow Man, he's not the kind to be patient, yet here Kris is, whole and mostly unharmed, hours later.

"What are you up to, you son of a bitch?" Kris mutters, carefully pushing himself up from the bed.

An initial search of the room he's in reveals nothing of use. There's a door along one of the walls, locked, and a window with the curtains closed set along the opposite wall. He pulls the curtains apart, upsetting a cloud of dust, only to find that the window is boarded from the outside. Thin strips of light fall in through the cracks between planks, painting the dirty floor with a haphazard pattern, but it's enough for Kris to get his bearings.

The room is small, with peeling faded wallpaper and rough floor boards. Aside from the bed there's only one other piece of furniture, a sturdy table placed along the wall by the door – the paint cracked and stained with fluids Kris doesn't want to think about. A threadbare rug covers part of the floor, dirty and torn with what looks to be years upon years of use.

The sound of a car door slamming makes Kris jump and he presses up against the window, trying to find an angle that lets him see outside. He finds it just in time to see a white van advertising Joe's Pipes back out onto the street. Weirdly enough it only moves a few yards down the road - that looks to be mostly deserted - before it stops at the curb and the lights turn off.

Kris waits for someone to get out with bated breath, but nothing happens. The car just stands there, whoever drove it still inside. He still staring at the van when the earpiece hidden in his ear starts crackling, making him suck in a breath in surprise. He rubs at his ear with stiff fingers, trying to make sense of the barely there voices he can hear while keeping his eyes trained at the van.

"Signal… coming… hope… there…"

Lambert's voice is becoming clearer, as if he's moving into range, and Kris tries to remember the specs Lambert rattled when he first put it in. How close is he? A mile? Two? Three? He scrubs at his ear again, staring at the van. It is almost as if it's waiting for something, but what?

"Fifteen minutes," Lambert's frantic voice says. "We’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Hang in there, baby, I'm coming for you."

Kris almost smiles, but then the dots starts to connect and his heart leaps into his throat again. The earpiece is in the wrong ear, which means whoever snatched him found it but put it back in again. At the club he had the earpiece in his right ear, now it's in his left, and the mike he was wearing disappeared with his clothes.

It's a trap. It has to be. The Rainbow Man doesn't care about Kris. He _wanted_ Lambert to track him. That's why he's just sitting there, waiting for the final show to go down. Kris stares at the large antenna sticking up from the roof of the van, bigger than any radio antenna needs to be. _He's listening,_ he thinks, and somehow he knows that he's right.

"Thirteen minutes…"

Kris tries to push Lambert's frantic voice out of his mind as he turns around to survey the room again. The easiest exit would probably be the window, boarded up or not, but with the van just sitting there Kris doesn't have a chance to make it out unspotted.

He tries the door again. It's still locked and a few hefty pulls doesn't accomplish more than noise. Since it opens inwards kicking it open is out of the question, but that also means that the old-fashioned hinges are on the inside. He studies them closely, trying to make sense of the construction.

"Twelve minutes," Lambert says, and Kris's already too-fast pulse picks up speed.

He needs more time, and possibly something to wear, and a moment to clear his head, but what he needs most of all is something to use as a hammer. He rifles through the room again with the same dubious success as the last time and he's just about to give up when the weak light from the window reflects against something half hidden underneath the grimy bed.

His knees protest when they connect with the floor, the pain shooting up through his left thigh, but he ignores it, closing his fingers around the elusive object. It's a metal pipe, cold to the touch and marred with specks of dried blood. Bile rises in Kris's throat as he wraps his fingers tight around the edge, taking the pipe with him to the door.

"Eleven minutes," Lambert says, and Kris goes to work.

The first few blows against the rusty hinges accomplish nothing against the door but shoot waves of pain through Kris's abused joints, and then the top half starts to give and he doubles his efforts, ignoring the pain.

"Nine minutes," Lambert murmurs when Kris finally gets the hinges off, wrapping his fingers around the bent metal and pulling with all his might.

The door crashes inward and Kris just barely avoids getting trapped under it, crouching down against the doorpost with the metal pipe clutched in his sweaty hands. The hallway outside the door is dark and empty, and the only sound beyond Lambert's voice is the frantic thunder of Kris's pulse.

Normally, Kris would take his time, assess the situation and search the rooms for the assailant or even another captive, but he's tired, achy, naked and running out of time so he goes for the fast and reckless approach. If he's trapped inside when the FBI crew arrives they're all dead meat anyway.

"Eight minutes," Lambert says. He sounds calmer, more centered, and Kris can hear him talking to the squad when he's not updating Kris on the ETA. Lambert's entering the _zone_ , the feeling is familiar and Kris could really use some of that calm right now.

Downstairs is lighter, sunlight seeping in through the pulled curtains and grimy windows, almost enough of it to make Kris's eyes hurt with the sudden glare. Every room he looks into is empty, dirty and dusty, and he's beginning to wonder if his assessment of the situation was right. Maybe it isn't a trap, maybe The Rainbow Man just realized that the Feds would be coming for Kris and decided that safe was better than sorry.

"Seven minutes," Lambert says, just as Kris opens the door to a bathroom and finds the bomb.

"Holy shit," he says, staring at the huge, obviously homemade, construction that's hidden in the bathtub. If he hadn't been specifically looking for it, he might not even have spotted it.

There's no time to disarm it even if he knew how to, and Kris doesn't dare wait until the cavalry is out front, because who knows what kind of booby traps might be hidden around the yard. The bastard obviously put some planning into this, but his plan didn't include Kris getting free. He finds a t-shirt on a hook by the door, pulling it over his head as he heads back out into the living room.

There's a hardback copy of the bible lying on the coffee table, it looks brand new. Kris silently begs for forgiveness as he picks it up and hurls it through one of the windows that shatters into a thousand pieces, sending glass flying everywhere. There's probably a back entrance somewhere, but Kris doesn't trust it to be safe.

He uses the ratty old blanket on the threadbare couch to brush the glass away and cover the remaining shards, before he climbs slips out through the window. A piece of glass still nicks him on the upper arm, but with everything else that aches he barely registers the pain.

"Six minutes," Lambert says, keeping his voice soft. "I'll be right there, baby."

Kris stumbles on the slick, cold grass, his toes digging themselves into the moist ground and he takes a moment to get his bearings. He hazards a peek around the corner of the house; the van is still parked where Kris last saw it, but the lights are back on. He's probably planning on moving out of view before the Feds show up.

Kris starts moving in the opposite direction, with nothing but hope to guide him. The houses are few and far between, run-down and worn with cluttered yards and unkempt lawns. It's the kind of place where no one asks any questions and if someone sees Kris's half-naked form darting through their backyard, they don't come out to ask what he's doing.

"Four minutes," Lambert says, and Kris turns his bare feet towards the dirt road winding its way past the sagging old houses.

His breath wheezes through his throat, burning like fire, and his feet slip and skid on the damp ground, while sticks and stones dig into his soles. The road means better footing, but the uneven stones dig into his abused feet and his run slows to a stumble. He doesn’t even know if he's running in the right direction.

He looks over his shoulder, the road is curved enough that he can no longer see the house, or the van idling at the curb and he panics when he hears the roar of engines approaching. What if the Rainbow Man heard him getting out? What if he's coming for Kris to tie up the loose ends?

"Three… what the fuck?"

The black van almost runs Kris over coming around the curve and it's only due to the driver’s quick reflexes that Kris doesn't end up flattened in the ditch. Lambert is in the front seat, eyes wide and mouth hanging open, Kris has enough presence of mind to gesture for him to keep talking, hands flailing wildly as he tries to telepathically send his message.

"Holy shit," Lambert says, eyes trained on Kris's trembling form. "We'll be right there baby, but I'm gonna hand you over to Terrance now, okay? I need to put my gear on."

Kris watches as Adam gives his headset to Terrance who Kris recognizes from the club. Terrance takes it with a panicked look on his face, saying something to Lambert that Kris can't make out. Whatever Lambert answers it's enough to make Terrance slip the headset on and start talking, stuttering and stumbling through an uncertain introduction. Lambert must have gotten Kris's gestured memo to keep talking as if nothing happened.

Kris doesn't listen, because the car door is opening and Lambert sliding out of the car. It shouldn't be such a huge relief to see him, but it really really is, and Kris isn't even embarrassed about the way his knees tremble when he stumbles forward. Lambert catches him easily, wrapping Kris up in a bear hug.

"Are you okay?" he asks, gently tugging on Kris's hair to make him look up.

Kris is pretty sure he's anything but, his bleeding wrists ache, his hands ache, his feet throb, and there's not a single part of his body that doesn't feel the abuse, but it's nothing that won't heal and he doesn't have time to pity himself just yet. So instead of answering Lambert's question, Kris spills the whole convoluted mess in one too fast rush of words. Lambert listens with his face set into a stony grimace, asking questions where needed.

"How did you figure out he was listening?" Adam asks, staring down the road as if he can will himself to see through the trees.

"I can't be sure but there's a huge antennae at the top of the van and he removed my earpiece, but must have decided to let me keep it. You put it in my right ear, yeah?" He doesn't wait for Adam's nod before he goes on. "It's in my left now, so he obviously removed it at some point."

Adam nods again. "We lost the GPS transmission when he snatched you at the club," he says. "It only came back about half an hour ago. He must have known it was there, scrambling the transmission until he was ready for us to find you." He shakes his head, nostrils flared. "The sick fucking bastard must have had someone on the inside or at the very least access to our files."

While he speaks two more vans pull up behind the first one, and more agents gets out to mill around them. Kris is suddenly acutely aware of the way Lambert's embrace rucked up the shirt, exposing his bare ass to the world, and he reluctantly disentangles himself from Lambert's arms, gratefully accepting the blanket someone hands him. In his ear Terrance is saying something about puppies and he lifts his head to look at him through the half open door. Terrance shrugs helplessly, obviously at loss for what to say.

Everything goes a bit hazy after that, Lambert starts giving orders in hushed whispers and Kris is guided to sit in the back of one of the vans, still wrapped up in the scratchy blanket. He feels weird, disconnected, and he half dozes with his head resting against the window. Lambert doesn't have the manpower to spare for someone to protect him, so instead he's given his gun and made to solemnly promise that he'll stay out of harm's way. He agrees without hesitation. He's had enough excitement for a day.

*

At some point Lambert gets the headset back from Terrance and keeps on giving Kris a fake rundown on the events. Kris half listens, curled up on the seat with the comforting weight of his gun against his abdomen and the blanket pulled tight across his shoulders. Now that the adrenaline is wearing off everything hurts, but he still keeps his eyes trained towards the house, half wishing he was there.

The sudden shout of _he's got a gun_ followed by the sounds of gun-shots and Lambert's surprised grunt of pain makes Kris sit up straight. Then the broadcast cuts off abruptly and he's up and moving before he's had time to think about it. Logically, he knows that he's making a fool of himself, running to the rescue with the blanket flapping about his shoulders and his ass bare, but logic really has nothing to do with it.

"What the _fuck_ do you think you're doing?"

Kris stops dead in his tracks, cheeks flushing, when he spots Lambert walking towards him with his face set into an angry frown and a bloodied rag wrapped around his upper arm.

"I… uh…"

Lambert is followed by another five federal agents, all in full battle gear, and Kris is suddenly acutely aware of what a silly picture he must paint, bare legged with a blanket cape and a gun clutched in his hand.

"Go back to the van," Lambert says tightly, pointing as if he's not sure that Kris can find his way otherwise.

Kris doesn't bother responding, turning on his heel and slinking back towards the empty vehicle, feeling quite like a scolded child. It's hard to remember why he was so concerned for Lambert's well-being to begin with, the man is an asshole.

*

Kris spends almost four hours at the hospital before they finally start making noises about releasing him. Three of those (at least) he spends answering inane questions while having various parts of his body prodded, pushed and pulled, before they finally start patching him up. All in all the damage isn't too bad, a few rope burns and a lot of bruises, but he's pretty sure he's going to feel it in the morning.

After they've bandaged the last cut, the one on his arm that he got climbing out the window, the nurse says something about getting a doctor to sign him out and Kris is left to his own devices for the first time since he arrived. Of course that's when Lambert shows up.

"Hey," he says, peeking in through the door. "How are you doing?"

Kris is determined to stay angry with him, even if he looks deathly tired in the harsh hospital light, but when Lambert steps through the door Kris realizes he brought pizza. The anger immediately dials down to a mild simmer of annoyance.

"Is that for me?" he asks, eyeing the pizza box in Lambert’s hand.

"Yeah," Lambert says, holding it out for Kris to take. "I thought you might be hungry."

Kris tears into the box and bites into the first piece before looking up again. "Uh huh," he agrees.

Lambert smiles, the tired lines of his face softening, and pulls up a chair to sit by the bed. He has a bandage wrapped around his upper arm and his badge hanging on a chain around his neck.

"May I?" he asks, gesturing towards one of the remaining pieces.

"Sure," Kris says, spraying bread crumbs over the front of his hospital issue shirt. It's not the most graceful he's ever been but it's been _forever_ since he last saw food.

Lambert carefully picks up a piece and bites into it, eyes fluttering shut in bliss and Kris finds himself wondering how long it's been since Lambert’s eaten. It's shouldn't matter to him, really, but maybe he does care, just a little bit.

They don't talk much, eating their pizza in silence that is surprisingly comfortable, and it's not long before Lambert is called away again, stealing one last piece to eat along the way. The room seems strangely empty without him and Kris frowns into the remains of the pizza, wondering if maybe he's still drugged.

*

It's late evening, dark and chilly, when Kris finally makes his way to his car, only to realize that he no longer has his car keys. He also doesn't have his phone and if he has to go back into the station again he's just going to give up and sleep at his desk. He's too tired to think, which means he's probably too tired to drive anyway, and he folds forward leaning his forehead against the cold roof of his car.

Maybe tomorrow he'll feel proud of what he accomplished, maybe tomorrow he'll be happy that the bad guy is in federal custody and that no one was seriously hurt. Right now he really just wants to shower and sleep for a year, hoping that it'll wash the bad taste from his mouth.

"Do you need a ride?"

Lambert's voice is kind and unexpected. Kris hasn't seen him since the hospital, and Kris carefully pushes away from the car to face him. Lambert's ditched the suit jacket and the button-down, his bandaged arm peeking out of a white t-shirt, revealing the tattoos on his wrist. Kris stares at them, a stylized eye and an infinity symbol, not the kind of tattoos you'd expect to see on a Fed, but then nothing about Lambert is expected.

"You know what?" Lambert asks, reaching out to tug Kris forward with a loose grip around his elbow. "Even if you don't need a ride I'm gonna take you anyway."

Kris vaguely thinks that he should protest, but it's not like he actually has a Plan B.

Lambert's car is sleek and black. Kris isn't the slightest bit surprised, but the way Lambert guides him into it, one hand pressed against the small of Kris's back, is quite surprising. Kris almost forgets that he's mad at him.

"I think I owe you an apology," Lambert says when he slides in behind the wheel, watching as Kris fumbles with the seatbelt. "I've been behaving like an ass today."

"Yeah," Kris agrees, leaning his head back against the headrest. "You totally do."

Lambert chuckles as he turns the key in the ignition, the car rumbling to life around them. "Well, for what it's worth, I'm sorry."

Kris snorts, letting his eyes flutter shut. "Could you sound less sincere?"

"Maybe if I tried," Lambert offers and Kris has to smile at that. "I mean it though," he continues a moment later. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have taken my issues out on you."

"And what issues would those be?" Kris asks.

Lambert sighs. "The plan was too risky from the start, I fucking knew that, but my superiors wanted us to go through with it, claiming no plan is ever foolproof. Then you showed up, looking too young and too fresh to be able to hold your own if it came to that… Fuck, Kris, you just came back to active duty after being shot by an eighty-five year old grandma and I guess I just… snapped."

"Oh," Kris mumbles, cheeks flushing. "You know about that."

" _Everyone_ knows about that," Adam says and Kris doesn't have to look up to know that he's rolling his eyes.

They're silent for a while as Lambert drives out of the parking lot, Kris with his eyes closed and Lambert hopefully with his eyes on the road, Kris isn't going to look to find out.

"You did good today," Lambert says softly, almost as an afterthought. "You saved all our lives."

"I know," Kris answers, forcing his eyes to open. "No thanks to you guys."

Lambert flushes, keeping his eyes straight ahead. He doesn't ask for directions and Kris wonders if Lambert looked up where he lives.

"He had it all figured out," Lambert says. "One minute you were there, heading towards the bathrooms and then you were just gone."

"Who was he?" Kris asks, even if he's not sure he wants to know.

"No one you talked to," Adam says. "He kept to a table most of the night, waiting for the right moment. Even reviewing the tapes we can't say for sure when he drugged you. He brushed past you once, about ten minutes before you disappeared, it might have been then."

Kris tries to recall a pinprick of pain, or any hint of when the drug entered his system, but he draws a blank. He just remembers feeling sick all of a sudden and Lambert screaming in his ear. He shivers involuntarily and knots his hands in his lap. It's gonna take a while before the images leaves his mind.

Lambert reaches over to touch his clasped hands and Kris isn't sure why the warm press of his hand is so comforting.

"Why did he do it?" Kris murmurs, even if he knows that Lambert probably can't answer.

"I don't know," Lambert replies. "I don't even know if he does. The guy is smart, there's no doubt about that, but he's many, many crackers short of a box. I'm sure we'll find out more eventually, but at this point we don't even know his real name."

Kris smiles, rolling his head against the headrest to look at Lambert's profile. He's pretty - strong straight nose, full lips, dark lashes and those startling blue eyes – Kris already knew that but now it feels significant, different. He realizes he doesn't know Lambert's first name either, he probably heard it, maybe even more than once, but it didn't stick.

"And I don't know yours," he murmurs, sleepy and unguarded. Everything feels too intimate in the dark, lines blurring and boundaries breaking, he should shut up and retreat into his head, but he's tired of never taking chances.

"Adam," Lambert answers, turning his head briefly to catch Kris's eyes. "It's Adam."

 _'The first man,'_ Kris thinks, and somehow that means something.

*

Kris isn't surprised when Lambert - well, Adam - insists on following him to the door, and he's even less surprised when Adam invites himself inside. Somehow he thinks they've been moving towards this moment all day.

He is surprised, however, when Adam shoos him off to the shower without making a move and he's even more surprised when he stumbles out of the bathroom, sleepy and dressed in his pajamas, to find that Adam fixed tea and sandwiches from the meager helpings in his fridge. Feeding people seems to be a thing for Adam. Kris can still taste the heavenly pizza Adam bought him while he was at the hospital (seems like a lifetime ago now).

"You're a feeder, aren't you?" Kris asks, sitting down at the kitchen table with one of his legs tucked in underneath him. If he was a little less tired he'd be embarrassed about the mess in the sink and the crumbs on the table, but right now he just doesn't have the energy.

Adam laughs. "More like a nurturer," he says, and for some reason it makes Kris's stomach flutter. Maybe it's the tone, soft and easy, or maybe it's the way Adam's laugh lights up his entire face.

Kris averts his eyes, focusing on his sandwich instead. The last thing he needs right now is a crush on the asshole Fed that didn't even have the decency to show up in time save his life.

"Are you okay?" Adam asks, reaching across the table to touch Kris's wrist, just above the gauze wrapped around it.

Kris looks up. "Yeah," he says, forcing a smile. "Just tired, I guess."

The problem is that once you get to know him, Adam is anything but an asshole.

*

"I should go," Adam says, leaning his shoulders back against the front door and stuffing his hands into his pockets. "It's getting late… again. I should let you sleep."

"Yeah," Kris agrees, rocking back on his heels. "You too."

"Uh huh," Adam says, nodding, but he doesn't make a move to leave.

"Did you sleep at all?" Kris asks, at least he spent a few hours of the night knocked out.

Adam snorts and shakes his head hard enough that his hair finally gives into gravity and flops over to the side. It's strangely adorable. "You don't let the hot guy get kidnapped and then take a nap," he says. "It's unheard of."

Kris laughs, hoping that it's enough to explain the way his cheeks light up.

"…I said that out loud, didn't I?"

"Yeah." Kris nods solemnly. "You really did."

"Oh dear."

Adam starts laughing too and soon they're both doubled over, clutching at their sides.

"No really," Adam gasps. "I should leave."

"Yeah, definitely," Kris agrees, moving closer.

"Staying would be a bad, bad idea." Adam straightens up again, pressing himself against the door.

"Mmhm. The worst." Kris reaches out to put his hands flat against Adam's chest.

"Horrible, terrible," Adam murmurs, lifting his hands to rest on Kris's hips.

"Awful, despicable." Kris slides his hands up to Adam's shoulders, tilting his head back to look at him.

Adam bends forward, his eyes fluttering shut when their foreheads meet. "I'm all out of objections," he whispers, breath shivering across Kris's skin.

"Me too," Kris agrees, sliding his hands further up into Adam's hair, letting it slip thick and soft through his fingers until he finds the stiffness of gel.

"Fuck it," Adam mutters just before he claims Kris's lips in a kiss.

It's everything Kris thought it would be, and then some. Adam kisses like he does everything else, fierce and confident, stealing Kris's breath away without even asking, but Kris is no meek virgin ripe for the taking. He gives back as good as he gets, nipping at Adam's lips, sucking on his tongue, constantly trying for _more_ and _deeper_.

Adam slips his hands in under Kris's worn t-shirt, palms hot against Kris's skin, and Kris impatiently pulls away from the kiss to yank it over his head, before delving back for more. He groans when Adam reverses their positions, pressing Kris up against the door while he slides his tongue deep into Kris's mouth and his hands wrap around Kris's hips.

"Yeah," Kris breathes, when Adam starts kissing a path down his neck, nipping sharply at his skin before soothing the hurt with his tongue. "Fuck yeah."

He vaguely recalls thinking this would be a bad idea some time ago, but right now, he thinks it's _awesome_. It might be his libido talking, because it's been a while since he let it out to play, but Adam's already better at this whole sex thing than anyone Kris's ever slept with. That is until Adam suddenly lifts his head with a startled 'oh' that doesn't sound sexual at all, blinking down at Kris in the meager light of the hall.

"Your chest," he says, sucking his lower lip in between his teeth.

Kris blinks rapidly, trying to clear the sex fog out of his brain. He knows what his chest looks like, bruised and scraped raw, covered with the odd patches of OpSite to cover the worst of the rope burns, the rest of him looks pretty much the same, but he doesn't think it's that bad.

"It's very attractive, I know," Kris says, pulling Adam into another kiss, because he's so not going to let some kind of misplaced guilt interrupt the sexy times. They already made everything awkward by making out, there's no reason to back down now.

"But it's all… hurt," Adam says, breaking away from the kiss and sliding his hand up to press lightly against Kris's pecs.

"You know what also hurts?" Kris asks meaningfully, reaching up to take one of Adam's hands. "This."

Adam makes a startled little sound when Kris pulls his hand down to rest against his hips, fingers straying precariously close to where Kris's cock is straining against the soft fabric of the sleep pants. Kris is not quite bold enough to stuff Adam's hand down his pants, but man, does he want to.

"Yeah," Adam says inanely. "Okay."

Kris is going to ask what he's talking about, he really is, but then Adam grabs his hips hard and hoists him up into the air as if he weighs nothing. It's only quick reflexes, the door and the heady charge of desire that keeps Kris from toppling over with the sudden move, legs wrapping around Adam's waist while his hands come up to clutch at Adam's shoulders, keeping him balanced.

"What…" Kris begins but Adam cuts him off with his mouth. It's probably just as well.

Things get a bit messy after that, Adam stumbling through the apartment with Kris clutched in his arms, knocking things over left and right until they end up in the kitchen, Kris's ass planted on the counter with Adam's hands splayed over his buttocks, mouths still busy kissing.

"I need a map," Adam murmurs, pulling away from Kris's mouth to lick a stripe down his neck. "Where's your fucking bedroom?"

"Through the living room," Kris says, winding his fingers into Adam's hair.

They leave Adam's shirt and one of his socks behind in the kitchen and they knock over a table before they finally crash onto Kris's bed in a hapless tangle of limbs.

"If I'd known I was gonna have company I would have totally made the bed," Kris gasps, chest heaving as if he's run a marathon.

"Believe me," Adam murmurs, yanking Kris's sleep pants down his legs. "I couldn't care less."

Kris returns that sentiment in spades, especially when Adam wraps a hand around his cock, coaxing a trickle of precome from the slit. He struggles with Adam's belt buckle, but the thing is like a chastity belt, and then Adam twists his wrist in a way that makes it really hard to even think.

"Pants," Kris says. "Off."

"Yeah, yeah."

Adam stands at the foot of the bed to strip the last of his clothes, shameless in a way that Kris finds intensely refreshing, but then he wouldn't try to hide three miles of legs, tight hips and the kind of long thick cock that belongs on the cover of a porno either.

"You like?" Adam asks, meeting Kris's intense stare with one eyebrow cocked.

"Oh, it'll do," Kris says airily, pushing himself further up the bed.

Adam laughs, climbing onto the bed and placing himself firmly on top of Kris to claim his lips in another kiss.

"I think you'll find it's more than sufficient," he murmurs against Kris's ear, sliding one hand down to scratch lightly at the delicate skin behind Kris's balls. "Got anything?"

Kris valiantly bites down on his moan and tries to remember where he last saw the lube. The condoms, he's sure, are in the kitchen.

"Condoms in the kitchen," he pants. "Lube… elsewhere."

Adam blinks at him. "Where in the kitchen?" he asks, with a longsuffering look on his face.

"The drawer under the coffee machine."

"I'll get them," he says. "You find the lube."

Adam jumps up way too easily for someone sporting a monster erection. He should be getting woozy walking around with that thing. Kris should really help him out with that, take the edge off, so that he doesn't faint walking around. It's only proper.

Unfortunately, Adam disappears out into the living room before Kris has had time to put his thoughts into action and he's left contemplating the location of the lube. By the time Adam comes back Kris is riffling through the bathroom cabinets, leaving a mess of bottles and towels strewn across the floor. It's going to take him hours to clean up after this.

"You can stop looking," Adam says from the bathroom door.

"Uh?"

Kris looks up, afraid that Adam suddenly changed his mind, but Adam's leaning against the doorpost (still gloriously naked) clutching the lube. Huh?

"Where did you find it?" Kris asks, carefully straightening up. His abused knees twinge with the movement and he's pretty sure that Adam can tell from the way his brows furrow.

"In the kitchen next to the cooking oil and are you _sure_ you're up for this?"

"What was it… _oh_ …"

Kris's cheeks heat up when he remembers just why the lube was in the kitchen to begin with even though he's almost certain Adam can't read his mind. It's not like Adam knows it's there because that was where he last used it or how long ago that was.

"I guess I should be happy mom hasn't visited lately," Kris mumbles, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck.

"Seriously," Adam says, stepping closer. "Are you okay?"

He looks honestly worried and it's probably not about Kris's woes about the lube. The harsh bathroom light doesn't hide anything and Kris's skin looks like he spent a great portion of the day trussed up like a turkey.

"I'm fine," Kris says, impatient and annoyed. He might be small, but he's not fragile. Now would be a good time for Adam to start channeling his inner asshole again.

"But…"

"Fine," Kris repeats sharply. "Believe me, after the day I had, I deserve to get laid."

Adam laughs, taking a step closer. "Well, okay then."

*

Adam has curious hands. They touch and push and pull and stroke and caress as if they're determined to find all the spots that make Kris's breath hitch, carefully – insistently – mapping Kris's skin out to the last square inch.

"Now, this is a good spot," Adam murmurs, rubbing lube-slick fingers over Kris's opening. "Hot and tight."

Kris agrees with a moan, pulling his legs up further.

"You remembered to remove the egg, right?" Adam asks, dipping a finger in to the first knuckle.

Kris flushes down to his chest. " _Yes._ "

"Good."

It's almost too seamless, the way Adam fingers him open as if they had practice at this, Adam's fingers sliding slow and deep while his mouth presses kisses against Kris's skin, until Kris lifts into every slick slide, moans spilling unchecked from his lips.

"You ready?" Adam asks, kissing the corner of Kris's mouth.

Kris moans for an answer, turning his face into Adam's.

"Yeah, you're ready," Adam whispers, claiming Kris's lips for a languid, wet kiss.

Then Adam slides his fingers out, only to replace them moments later with the slick head of his cock.

"Breathe for me, baby," Adam mutters, voice tight as if he's struggling to hold back. "Come on."

Kris breathes, harsh and too fast, forcing his body to relax around Adam's girth.

"Yeah," Adam moans. "Yeah, baby. That's it."

The initial thrust lasts forever, an endless burning push forward until Adam's hips are flush against Kris's ass. He pauses then with his lower lip caught between his teeth and clumsily pushes Kris's sweaty bangs away from his face.

"You okay?" he asks.

Kris nods jerkily, raking his eyes down Adam's body. He wishes his head felt clearer and his limbs less heavy. He could spend hours exploring the star constellations on Adam's skin.

"Slow and easy, okay?" Adam breathes and then he starts moving, a shallow, too gentle, roll of his hips that makes Kris's breath stutter and his stomach clench.

"Fuck slow," Kris grinds out, locking his legs around Adam's waist. " _Fuck_ me."

Adam does, oh my god, does he ever. He drives into Kris, relentless and powerful, hitting all the right spots without even trying. He makes the bed rock against the wall and Kris's back slide against the sheets and he pulls noises from Kris's lips that Kris didn't even know he could make.

It's too simple to be this good, too new to be this perfect, but Kris's body doesn't seem to care, responding viscerally to Adam's every thrust. When he finally comes the orgasm starts at his toes, pouring through his body like a cold drink on a hot day, until he arches up against Adam with a shout and digs his fingers hard into Adam's shoulders.

Adam groans, deep and powerful, and his final thrusts make the bed creak and shake, until he presses up against Kris one last time, his face going slack with ecstasy.

Afterwards they curl up on the edge of the bed, avoiding the spot made damp by their sweat, and Kris thinks it shouldn't be possible to feel this content after the day he had. Adam's hands wander restlessly across his skin, touching scrapes and bruises, as if he's trying to commit them to memory.

"I'm okay," Kris murmurs against Adam's neck.

"I know," Adam answers, but his fingers continue on their trek across Kris's back.

They should probably talk, Kris is almost certain that's the case, but Adam's chest is comfortable and the fingers on his skin strangely soothing. He falls asleep before he can even begin to think of something to say.

*

In the morning Kris wakes up to a million aches and pains and an empty bed. He carefully pushes himself up to look around. The bedroom is a mess (and what little he can see of the bathroom is worse), but Adam's clothes seems to be gone. He sighs and flops back down against the mattress. It's not unexpected to find Adam missing, but the intensity of the disappointment kind of is.

Logically, he knows that the connection was probably all in his mind, brought on by a traumatic experience and some truly amazing sex, but it still stings to realize Adam doesn't feel the same way.

"So that was stupid," he says to no one in particular before forcing himself to roll out of bed.

A quick shower and pulling the sheets off the bed makes him feel marginally better and he listlessly starts picking through the mess on the floor, returning the towels to their cabinets and the various bottles to their shelves. He doesn't want to think about what the rest of the apartment must look like.

He's almost done with the bathroom when he hears the front door opening, freezing with a bottle of soap clutched to his bare chest. A number of completely illogical suggestions run through his mind, starting and ending with the Rainbow Man and he really wishes he had his gun but the spare is in his bedside table too far away to be of any help.

The door to the bathroom is partially closed, allowing him only a glimpse of the bedroom beyond it and he slowly creeps forward, intent on closing it. A shadow moves past his line of vision and then the door is pulled open. He throws the bottle before his mind has had the opportunity to catch up.

It's only Adam's quick reflexes that save him from getting hit in the face, instead the bottle bounces off his forearm and lands on the floor with a clatter.

"Well, good morning to you too," he says.

Kris flushes down to his hipbones. "Uh…" he says, scrubbing at the back of his neck. "Sorry?"

Adam laughs and reaches out, pulling Kris into a hug. "You're _adorable_ ," he says gleefully. Kris kind of hates him.

*

They have breakfast (turns out Adam only went out to get breakfast) at Kris's tiny kitchen table, heavenly coffee, and fresh cinnamon bagels with cream cheese. It just might be the best breakfast Kris ever had.

"So…" Adam says when the bagels are mostly digested, watching Kris lick cream cheese from his fingertips. "We should talk."

He sounds as if he'd rather have his teeth pulled without anesthesia. Kris silently agrees.

Adam picks up his coffee and takes a long sip, watching Kris over the rim of the cup. "So…" he says, slowly setting the cup back down on the table. "How did the lube end up in the kitchen anyway?"

Kris lets out a startled laugh. "That's what you want to talk about?"

Adam shrugs, smiling. "I'm curious, okay?"

Kris rolls his eyes, trying to keep his cheeks from flushing but failing spectacularly. "It was nothing," he says, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck.

"Hmm?" Adam asks, raising his eyebrows.

"Come on," Kris mutters. "Can't we save the pathetically awkward stories for our first date? We need something to talk about over dinner."

Adam laughs, throwing his head back in a way that bares the long lean line of his throat. Kris wants to lick it.

"Deal," Adam says when he looks up. "And don't think I'm not going to hold you to that."

Kris grins. "I'm counting on it."

They share a smile, and Adam takes another sip from his coffee, keeping his eyes locked on Kris's the entire time. Then he carefully puts it down and licks his lips. Kris decides they don't really have to wait until the first date to have sex again. Adam agrees.

~The End~

**Author's Note:**

> I'm aware that some questions never get answered. (Who is the Rainbow Man? Did he have someone on the inside? How did he know what frequencies to scan? Why the fuck was the lube in the kitchen?) I thought about it and decided that it's actually more plausible this way. The likelihood of the Feds having all the answers within hours of capture is not that high.
> 
> I have no idea if the GPS egg technology actually exists. If it doesn't someone should get on that.
> 
> This fic was originally inspired by a throw-away comment from jerakeen. My brain seems strangely attuned to her cop!Kris suggestions. ;)
> 
> Thanks for reading. <3


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